The Man on the Cliff
by Catherine Spark
Summary: Takes place many years after "His Last Bow".  A mellower Sherlock Holmes learns new lessons, and uses his old tactics, in an unforeseen position of responsibility.


When I first took up residence in my little Sussex home, I had not seriously thought, except in terms of aesthetics, about its proximity to the cliffs that overlooked the rocky bay. After many years, I have learnt that a great responsibility lies in occupying a house like mine. If you live near a cliff, or a railway or even just a river with a particularly strong current, it will almost certainly happen at some point, and you will most likely be the one who has to act.

I remember the first time clearly – the first of many. I had been for my usual walk along the cliffs. The chill wind was strong, and spray from the giant waves below tasted salty in my mouth. I did not mind the weather – in fact, I was very glad of it. My mind, although mellowing with my declining years, can still on occasion race uncomfortably fast with its old mania, or dwell painfully on my more serious failures and regrets over the years. The roar and crash of waves, the bracing wind and the taste and smell of spray help to blot out these 'little dark moments' until tranquillity returns.

That day as I strode along the cliff path, I noticed the figure of a man standing some yards ahead of me. I thought nothing of it, and was about to call out in greeting, when, to my horror, he took several quick steps towards the side and stopped, involuntarily it seemed, with his feet _halfway over _the edge of the cliff. My memory of the next few seconds is hazy, but I must have sprinted up the path and wrestled that man away from the edge, because we fell backwards together in a heap onto the path. Immediately he started cursing and screaming, clawing and kicking wildly in an attempt to escape my clutches. But I still have an extremely strong grip and held on for dear life. Eventually he fell back, exhausted, into my arms.

What would Watson do? What would Watson do? The chant pulsed through my brain as I hauled my charge to his feet and we made our way, shakily, into my house. I pushed my him down onto the settee, shut the living room door, locked it and pocketed the key. I realised he was shivering and wore no jacket – nothing on the top half in fact, except for an extremely stained, once-white shirt. I fetched a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Brandybrandybrandy. He resisted, but with a teaspoon and an immense effort I got at least some down his throat. The sense began to return to his face, but his eyes remained dull, listless, uninterested in their surroundings.

I took my first proper look at the man I had saved. He was about five and a half feet tall, of square build, brown eyes with dark circles underneath, tufted eyebrows, shoulder length black hair and a shadowy crop on his chin and lip. His face was pale and drawn.

"Thank God you didn't fall," I told the man.

"What's it to you?" he whispered in a monotone.

"Because your life is important," I told him.

"To whom?"

"Well, to me for a start." I paused. "What is your name?"

"Harry Boyd."

"Were you trying to kill yourself?"

The man paused for a long time. "What does it look like?" he spat back, finally.

"Things aren't always the way they appear. I should know."

"Well, for all the difference it makes, yes. It's my life and I'll end it if I choose. You don't know me."

I wondered what on Earth I should say. If I agreed with this last point then I was making my position look weak in front of him, and if I disagreed I would appear overbearing and he would hardly unburden himself in front of me. I found myself falling back on the tactics that came most naturally to me.

"I don't know you or what has happened, but there are some clues," I told him. "The scratched and swollen indent around your left fourth finger suggests to me that you were married for many years and your wife very recently betrayed you, in all probability leaving you for a rival. As a result you tried to remove your wedding ring which had stuck into place, and when it wouldn't move you forced it off brutally using nail scissors and the blade of a multiplex knife. Only a broken, passionate man who has been given undeniable proof of their dear one's betrayal would treat themselves so viciously in the attempt to remove what instantly becomes an unbearable reminder."

The man stared at me in astonishment. "You are absolutely right. Jenny was the kindest and the most beautiful woman I have ever had the unfortunate pleasure of loving. But she left me for an old, old rival. I knew for several years – I could tell from her eyes. She was too good for me. As long as she returned home each night I forgave her. She told me she had a job at a textile factory in town, but I could find no trace of such a factory, the hours were irregular and her details were very vague. She grew more beautiful and more radiant each night. It was torment for me to lie there beside her, knowing, but refusing to admit, that somehow, by some hand, she was receiving that which I could never give her.

"Eventually of course, Jenny got bold. I began to stay at work longer to avoid sitting at home obsessing about her. But my work began to suffer progressively, and it was no great surprise when one morning last week my boss called me in and dismissed me. When I got back home they were there together in our bedroom – the exact sight I had lived in fear of for so long. My God, the pain was like nothing I have ever felt in my life. I lunged at the man but he overpowered me. When I came to I was lying against the door with two black eyes, a swollen bruise all across my right shoulder blade, a cut lip and a cracked rib. The first thing I did before staggering out to the doctor was to wrench that wedding ring from my finger with anything that came to hand and stamp it into the ground.

"An evening in hospital saw me patched up and sent home, where I recovered. While Jenny was away I was alright – I didn't have to face the fact that I had lost her. But the house was in her name, as she had inherited it from her mother. Naturally she wanted the house for herself and her new lover, and they threatened me with court and then, when they knew they had no legal leg to stand on, with assault. This man Jenny was with – one Oliver Blackwell – he was a bad piece of work. Aggressive, calculating, relentless, and he had bad friends too. I was in the house alone with Jenny yesterday when he and a friend came at me with clubs. I managed to knock his friend out with a few good punches and a kick, but he was crafty. He picked up a knife and hurled himself at me. I twisted his arm and pushed him down so he fell on it himself. He died in front of my Jenny and I feel no regret whatsoever.

Well, there I was. I'd lost the house, my wife and my future, and yet I had the law after me for defending what was rightfully mine. It should have been that undeserving bastard that got the gallows, but I knew that before long it would be me instead. Well I wasn't going to have them hang me for ridding them of that deserving devil, so I drove here and went out to the cliffs, and that is where you found me."

He sat in silence, looking at me with fierce intensity, challenging me to find fault with his story. I realised, with a leap of hope, that he believed he had done right, but more importantly that it mattered to him – he was caring about something in life.

"You would not have jumped, Mr Boyd, and you will not hang," I assured him after a long silence. "You killed in self-defence for one thing, and you were not sound of mind for another – you were severely provoked. Jenny is a witness, and no matter how unwilling she is to speak in your favour, she cannot deny that her lover and his accomplice hit out first. I too will defend you if need be. You will walk, Mr Boyd. As to Jenny, I cannot agree with you in several of your assertions. If you are speaking the truth then, beautiful as she may have been she certainly was not kind. Far from being _too_ _good_ for the likes of you, I'll wager _she _was not good enough for _you_. She has lied to you and betrayed you in every way possible. You have been blinded, my friend."

He looked at his feet and nodded. "Your flaw?" I continued, "You worshipped the ground on which she walked. You denied her faults to everyone, even to yourself. You were too forgiving. It was wasted on her – she only abused it time and time again."

Again he nodded.

"In the future, worship only the One who is worthy, friend Boyd."

He paused thoughtfully. "I will," he said, and my heart sang. Not only did he care about something in life, but he was now willing to consider the future. It was in that moment that I realised he was certainly saved.

"Now," I told him gently, "Are you ready? Let us get this over with." He drew breath shakily and nodded. I then called the police and gave a full account of what had happened, along with an opinion of his mental state. Two hours later they arrived to take him away. One of the young policemen recognised me. "Sea air suits you," he said.

"Give my regards to Lestrade and his wife," I replied.

"Will do, Mr Holmes."

Harry Boyd's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He stared at me in awe. I saluted him silently and he nodded back as they led him away.

-/-/-/-/-

It is five years since my friend Harry Boyd was acquitted for the killing of Oliver Blackwell. I heard that he re-married and moved to the states – as so many do after a life-changing tragedy. Since then, I have stopped six more people from jumping. When I retired I thought I had finished with clients, with crime, with life-or-death situations and other peoples' problems. It turns out my type of 'client' has simply changed. The challenge lies not in finding reasons why they should not jump, but in selecting those that hit home for the individual. And the funny thing is I have grown comfortable with this responsibility: Every time I pull another person back it reminds me of all the things that are good and beautiful and worth fighting for in this world.

I hope Watson is watching from somewhere – I think he would be very happy.

THE END


End file.
